The morning air within the staging chamber of the Astral Conclave was heavy, thick with the scent of ancient stone and the sharp, medicinal tang of the opalite dust that permeated every corner of the mountain. Kael stood before a tall, star-glass mirror, his hands resting on a cold marble table as a team of acolytes worked in silence around him. They were draping him in the ceremonial mantle of the Stars, a garment of heavy, midnight-blue silk that felt more like a burden than a blessing. After weeks of the rigid, unforgiving pressure of tactical gear and reinforced carbon fiber, the fluid movement of the silk against his skin felt disturbingly like a vulnerability.
He looked at his reflection, but he did not see the King the acolytes were trying to build. His eyes were fixed on his hair.
